It's kind of bittersweet for me this summer, because I know this landscape; I have been here before, with my older sons. The other night I called my son home (on cell phone here in the future, rather than by voice or wall phone) and soon I saw him rounding the corner on his bike, a bike that is now too small for his wildly growing limbs - with his baseball bat balanced across his handlebars, his baseball glove tucked under one arm, his attention wandering from yard to yard as he passed by. Before my son, enjoying this slow ramble home, was lost behind a tree, I took a mental picture of him now. Wild young, and perfect...and to me, he always will be.
Soon, he will change, and that's the way it should be, I know. I'll turn around and he'll be driving, and out with friends all the time, and not here so much. So this summer, I will be waiting for any time he has just to "hang," and I'll focus on not focusing on things, and just let the summer roll out like a carpet of time that I can only use once, and then must roll back up and store away in my memory, just an image of the real thing that I'll wish I could re-claim.
Thirteen is a great age; before the pressure and awarenesses of adulthood, and after the restrictions of being younger than thirteen. You can ride your old bike around the neighborhood at dusk, thinking about stuff, or meet the guys at the field for some batting at the cages.
Let the summer rip, honey. I'll be home waiting, at my loom of being your mom, making us a carpet for later.
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